ON THE LATE INDECENT LIBERTIES TAKEN WITH THE REMAINS OF MILTON.-1790.
"ME too, perchance, in future days,
The sculptur'd stone shall show,
With Paphian marble or with bays
Parnassian on my brow.
"But I, or ere that season come,
Escaped from every care,
Shall reach my refuge in the tomb,
And sleep securely there."
So sang, in Roman tone and style,
The youthful bard, ere long
Ordain'd to grace his native isle
With her sublimest song.
Who then but must conceive disdain,
Hearing the deed unbless'd,
Of wretches who have dared profane
His dread sepulchral rest?
Jll fare the hands that heav'd the stones
Where Milton's ashes lay,
That trembled not to grasp his bones
And steal his dust away!
O ill-requited bard! neglect
Thy living worth repaid,
And blind idolatrous respect
As much affronts thee dead.
COTTAGER AND HIS LANDLORD.
A PEASANT to his lord paid yearly court,
Presenting pippins of so rich a sort
That he, displeas'd to have a part alone,
Remov'd the tree, that all might be his own.
The tree, too old to travel, though before
So fruitful, wither'd, and would yield no more.
The 'squire, perceiving all his labour void,
Curs'd his own pains, so foolishly employ'd.
And, "Oh," he cried, "that I had lived content
With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant !
My avarice has expensive proved to me,
Has cost me both my pippins and my tree."
THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS.
Two nymphs both nearly of an age,
Of numerous charms possessed,
A warm dispute once chanced to wage.
Whose temper was the best.
The worth of each had been complete,
Had both alike been mild:
But one, although her smile was sweet,
Frowned oftener than she smiled.
And in her humour, when she frowned,
Would raise her voice and roar,
And shake with fury to the ground
The garland that she wore.
The other was a gentler cast,
From all such frenzy clear,
Her frowns were seldom known to last
And never proved severe.
To poets of renown in song
The nymphs referred the cause,
Who strange to tell, all judged it wrong,
And gave misplaced applause,
They gentle called, and kind and soft,
The flippant and the scold,
And though she changed her mood so oft,
That failing left untold.
No judges, sure, were e'er so mad,
Or so resolved to err-
In short, the charms her sister had
They lavished all on her.
Then thus the God whom fondly they
Their great inspirer call,
Was heard one genial summer's day,
To reprimand them all.
"Since thus ye have combined," he said, "My favourite nymph to slight, Adorning May, that peevish maid,
With June's undoubted right;
"The Minx shall, for your folly's sake.
Still prove herself a shrew,
Shall make your scribbling fingers ache,
And pinch your noses bluc."
THE winter night now well-nigh worn away, The wakeful cock proclaim'd approaching day,
When Simulus, poor tenant of a farm
Of narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm,
Yawn'd, stretch'd his limbs, and anxious to provide
Against the pangs of hunger unsupplied,
By slow degrees his tatter'd bed forsook,
And, poking in the dark, explored the nook
Where embers slept with ashes heap'd around,
And with burnt fingers'-ends the treasure found.
It chanc'd that from a brand beneath his nose,
Sure proof of latent fire, some smoke arose ;
When trimming with a pin th' incrusted tow,
And stooping it towards the coals below,
He toils, with cheeks distended, to excite
The ling'ring flame, and gains at length a light,
With prudent heed he spreads his hand before
The quivering lamp, and opes his gran'ry door.
Small was his stock, but taking for the day
A measured stint of twice eight pounds away.
With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand,
Fix'd in the wall, affords his lamp a stand:
Then bareing both his arms-A sleeveless coat/
He girds, the rough exuviæ of a goat;
And with a rubber for that use designed,
Cleansing his mill within-begins to grind;
Each hand has its employ; labouring amain,
This turns the winch, while that supplies the grain.
The stone revolving rapidly, now glows,
And the bruised corn a mealy current flows;
While he to make his heavy labour light,
Tasks oft his left hand to relieve his right;
And chants with rudest accent, to beguile
His ceaseless toil, as rude a strain the while.
And now, Dame Cybale, come forth,' he cries
But Cybale, still slumb'ring, nought replies.
From Afric she, the swain's sole serving-maid,
Whose face and form alike her birth betray'd:
With woolly locks, lips tumid, sable skin,
Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly thin,
Legs slender, broad and most mis-shapen feet,
Chapp'd into chinks, and parch'd with solar heat.
Such, summon'd oft, she came; at his command
Fresh fuel heap'd, the sleeping,embers fann'd,
And made in haste her simm'ring skillet steam,
Replenish'd newly from the neighbouring stream.
The labours of the mill perform'd, a sieve
The mingled flour and bran must next receive,
Which shaken oft, shoots Ceres through, refiu'd
And better dress'd, her husks all left behind.
This done, at once, his future plain repast,
Unleaven'd, on a shaven board he cast,
With tepid lymph, first largely soaked it all,
Then gather'd it with both hands to a ball,
And spreading it again with both hands wide,
With sprinkled salt the stiffen'd mass supplied,
At length the stubborn substance, duly wrought,
Takes from his palms impress'd the shape it ought,
Becomes an orb-and quarter'd into shares,
The faithful mark of just division bears.
Last, on his hearth it finds convenient space,
For Cybale before had swept the place,
And there, with tiles and embers overspread,
She leaves it reeking in its sultry bed.
Nor Similus, while Vulcan thus, alone,
His part perform'd, proves heedless of his own,
But sedulous, not merely to subdue
His hunger, but to please his palate too,
Prepares more sav'ry food. His chimney-side
Could boast no gammon, salted well and dried,
And hook'd behind him; but sufficient store
Of bundled anise, and a cheese it bore;
A broad round cheese, which, through its centre strang
With a tough broom-twig, in the corner hung;
The prudent hero therefore with address,
And quick despatch, now seeks another mess.
Close to his cottage lay a garden-ground,
With reeds and osiers sparely girt around,
Small was the spot, but lib'ral to produce:
Nor wanted aught that serves a peasant's use;
And sometimes e'en the rich would borrow thence,
Although its tillage was its sole expense.
For oft, as from his toils abroad he ceas'd,
Home-bound by weather, or some stated feast,
His debt of culture here he duly paid,
And only left the plough to wield the spade.
He knew to give each plant the soil it needs,
To drill the ground, and cover close the seeds,
And could with ease compel the wanton rill
To turn and wind, obedient to his will.
There flourishing starwort, and the branching beet,
The sorrel acid, and the mallow sweet,
The skirret, and the leek's aspiring kind.
The noxious poppy-quencher of the mind!
|